Guy of Gisbourne awoke to the sound of twittering birds. At first, he assumed spring had arrived early this year, but as consciousness fully returned, he cringed, remembering and realizing the source of the birdsong.
Vaisey, clothed in black silk, was lifting the covers off his birdcages and cooing over his feathered pets. "Hungry, my little songbirds?" he asked, travelling from cage to cage. "Daddy will see that you're fed...in a day or two!" He laughed a malicious and satisfied laugh, and turned to the bed. "Ah, Gisbourne! Awake? Get up. It's a glorious day for an execution!"
"Yes, my lord." Gisbourne flinched from soreness as he sat. Rising from the bed, he said, "I'll see that all is ready."
"See to it, Gisbourne."
...
Guy tried not to think about last night's degrading and debasing events as he strode toward the dungeons. Better to think on the imminent execution of Lincoln, and wonder whether the Sheriff might reward him with Lincoln's confiscated lands.
The Sheriff allowed him to live in Locksley, but it was not his. His own ancestral home, in his Yorkshire village of Gisbourne, was lost to him forever, due to his drunken father's mismanagement. The Church had seized the properties that should have passed to him, leaving him with nothing. If he hadn't sold his younger sister in marriage eleven years ago, when he was seventeen, he might still be destitute. That financial transaction had given him enough money to survive and live as befitted his rank, at least temporarily, but it was meeting Vaisey shortly thereafter when his future had taken shape.
Vaisey, whose background remained a mystery, was clearly a man on the rise. He had spied the young Gisbourne and had instantly taken Guy under his wing...Gisbourne sneered at the birdlike metaphor...and into his bed. Gisbourne, who had suffered every possible form of abuse by his drunken father, hated bedding with men, but endured it, falling under Vaisey's complete control. Proving a successful bodyguard who never shied away from committing Vaisey's most violent orders, Gisbourne's place as "right hand man" was secure, as was his future. As Vaisey rose to power, so did Gisbourne.
Thankfully, now that Guy was no longer a youth, Vaisey only summoned him to his bed on very rare occasions, preferring younger, prettier males, such as his new alchemist. But that didn't stop him from forcing a sporadic tumble in the sheets now and again, usually when Vaisey sought to gain tighter control over Gisbourne's life.
Passing the kitchens, Guy nearly collided with a young woman carrying a tray of meager food to a prisoner in the dungeons. "Watch where you're going!" he barked.
The woman looked up at him with startled, doe like eyes. "I'm sorry, my lord," she said, clearly frightened. Gisbourne liked the sound of her soft, pretty voice. He liked her round, gentle brown eyes, her sharp little nose, her long, soft, light brown hair, her slender willowy figure.
"What's your name?" he asked, in a breathy voice.
"Annie." She was trembling.
"You're new here."
She nodded.
Gisbourne was somehow moved. She was so fragile, he knew he could pick her up and break her in two. She was a stranger here, and frightened of him. He was new here himself, and he felt protective of her, and powerful in her presence.
"Don't let me keep you from your duties...Annie," he said, his voice deep but strangely gentle.
Hearing her name on his lips made her draw a quick little breath. "Thank you, my lord."
She began to walk away, but he followed her. They were both heading to the dungeons, after all, and he watched her from behind, shortening his steps so he would not overtake her. He could tell she felt nervous, knowing he was directly behind her, and again, her fear made him feel strong and powerful.
Entering the dungeons, Annie began walking toward Lincoln's cell. It was Gisbouorne's destination as well. He stopped her. "Do you know who I am?" he couldn't help asking.
"Of course, Sir," she stammered.
"What's my name?" he asked, with an air of superiority, as if she were a child.
"Guy of...Sir Guy of Gisbourne," she corrected herself.
He nodded his head, staring at her. He knew he could demand they go someplace private, and he could use her for his pleasure, but he did not want to take her that way. Her prettiness...her timidity...her awe of him was flattering. He liked her. He wanted her. But not that way.
"Annie," he repeated, feeling stronger each time he spoke her name, "put the tray down and go. What will transpire here is not for your ears."
"Yes, Sir." She quickly obeyed. "Goodbye, Sir," she said, bobbing a quick curtsy.
Gisbourne watched her scuttle away. His day had improved since he met her. He no longer felt degraded and base, but renewed, a person of consequence and power. And all due to a sweet faced young kitchen girl.
Focusing his mind on his duty, he turned to Lincoln's cell. "First light," he sneered. "Ready to die?"
...
Marian and her father watched in disbelief as Sir Lawrence of Lincoln was led, trembling, to the gallows. The once brave knight, Crusader, husband, and father was now reduced to a quaking mass of loose flesh and rattling bones. He was old, but afraid to die by the hangman's noose, for he was innocent of any crime.
Vaisey was in his element before the crowd of spectators. "Lords, ladies, people," he crowed,"today is a great day for Nottingham, and for England. I, Vaisey, Sheriff of Nottingham, shall administer Justice to you all, as is my sworn duty! This once noble Crusader you see before you, turned traitor to the Crown, shall die! Oh, do not let your hearts be moved to pity by his ancient form, no! Nor by his former glory as a Crusader! For he, of all people, should have been willing to help King Richard's troops in the Holy Land, rather than try to hinder them! For that is what he has done, my friends...try to hinder our King's troops! Strangle them...deprive them of the necessities they need to survive! By his death, we are helping our young men live! And so, say it with me, my friends, "Death to all traitors! Death to all traitors!"
Some in the crowd repeated his phrase half heartedly, but most remained silent and confused.
"Good, good...very good." Vaisey grinned and gave the signal for the drummers to play their drums. A hood was placed over Lincoln's head, as well as a noose, and the old man was assisted up onto a stool. His nervousness made him suffer a sudden bout of diarrhea, and his bowels loosened, staining his clothes and stripping him of his final dignity.
"Oh, Gisbourne!" the Sheriff smirked, "I assign you the duty to clean the gallows when this spectacle is over!" He gave the signal, and the executioner pulled the stool out from under the old man, who kicked and flailed until his body was still forever.
"A fine day's work, Gisbourne, hmm?" the Sheriff asked, smiling and skipping back into the Castle.
"Indeed, my lord." Gisbourne was thinking of the pretty kitchen wench, wondering when he would see her next.
"Marian," Edward said, his voice choked with emotion, "prepare to return to Knighton."
...
On the other side of the world, Robin was having difficulty concentrating on translating and reading the Quran, while Much chattered on and on in their tent.
Richard's troops had traveled south to Ascalon, leaving the French, under the quarrelsome Hugh of Burgundy, to remain in that fleshpot magnet, Acre. Winter wore on, with its hailstorms and flashfloods. Saladin's troops had retired to Jerusalem and the mountains, leaving Richard's army demoralised and gloomy. Nobody expressed its discontentment better than Much.
"Soggy food, Robin! And what's not soggy, is rotten! Did you taste that salt pork? Revolting! I wouldn't feed it to Saladin himself, not that I'd ever feast with him, mind you! And we thought England was wet! Please! At least at home, you can get dry. I've never worn such wet clothes over such a long period in my life, have you? I know for a fact you haven't, since I made certain you were always well dressed. And our armor...rusting! What good is rusted armor, Master? What good is it? I don't know why the king brought us to Ascalon anyway."
"To rebuilt it, Much."
"But why? I thought our objective was to capture Jerusalem! Why didn't we go there, Robin, oi?"
"Because, Much, the timing isn't right. A siege of Jerusalem now would prove fatal...with the lines to Jaffa so brittle, and Saladin's forces outnumbering us. Our lines would stretch so thin around the city's walls, Saladin's troops would cut us down."
Much didn't understand, but he trusted Robin. "Even so, I don't know why we're wasting our time here. The weather's so rotten, we haven't gotten any supplies by sea, and if the king expects us to rebuild this place on empty stomachs...does he even see what a state of disrepair it's in?"
"Which is why we are here to rebuild it. Trust me, Much, the king knows what he's doing."
Much scoffed. "Well, it would be a lot easier if it didn't rain so much."
"Last summer you couldn't stop moaning about how it never rains here."
"Last summer it didn't! Last summer, in that unrelenting heat, I could have used some rain! But oh, no! Not one drop when we needed it! Instead, it saves itself up, for one long steady downpour! When I get back home, if I get back home, I'll never complain about the rain in Locksley again!"
Robin grinned, turned a page, and furrowed his brow, trying hard to concentrate.
Much huffed. "God doesn't like you reading that, you know, Master."
"Oh, I don't know. It doesn't change my beliefs. And there's some wisdom in here, Much."
"Please!"
"No...really. Listen to this...I'm translating, of course, but listen. 'To every man there is a purpose he sets up in his life. Let yours be the doing of all good deeds.' "
There was precious silence in the tent for a moment. At last, Much spoke. " 'All good deeds.' I like that!"
Robin nodded, smiling.
"Do you think rebuilding Ascalon counts as a good deed, Master?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then I'll do it without complaining, but I still don't have to like it." Again, there was a brief silence, as Robin read quietly to himself.
"Master?" Much interrupted.
"Hmm?"
"Do you miss the serenity of home?"
Robin put the book down. "Maybe not the serenity...I don't value it as highly as you do...but the beauty...and the people, and just...home. I'm homesick, too, Much."
"Master?"
"Yes?"
"Do you ever think we'll make it home again?"
Robin was struck to his core. If Much were to die here, his blood would be on Robin's hands. Much would have never left home, if it hadn't been for him. He had thought he would be leading Much on a glorious adventure, but instead, he had led him straight into hell.
"When we get home, Much, I promise to make this up to you." He remembered being a small child, and being taught the story of John the Baptist advising giving away one cloak if you had two. He had gone straight to Much, who had little, and had given him half his clothing, and had been severly punished for it. But he'd never regretted it. An inspiration struck him now.
"Bonchurch," he said.
"What, Master?"
"You shall have Bonchurch. When we get home, I shall grant you the fields and lodge at Bonchurch."
"What?"
"You'll be a free man, Much, and a lord. You have my word. You've earned it, my friend."
Much couldn't believe his good fortune. His eyes brimmed over with tears, and for once, he was completely speechless.